


debajo de tu piel vive la luna

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Mozart in the Jungle (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: Hailey doesn't know what to expect at first.She never knows what to expect when it comes to Rodrigo, so this isn't exactly new to her, this feeling of walking on a tightrope when every step could make you fall. What will be next this time? A full drama queen blowout? Locking himself in his room for five hours? Only eating tacos for a week until he grows sick of it?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baiservole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baiservole/gifts), [niniadepapa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniadepapa/gifts).



Hailey doesn't know what to expect at first.

She never knows what to expect when it comes to Rodrigo, so this isn't exactly new to her, this feeling of walking on a tightrope when every step could make you fall. What will be next this time? A full drama queen blowout? Locking himself in his room for five hours? Only eating tacos for a week until he grows sick of it?

Only it's not entertaining this time, because it is her life too and she isn't used to that kind of Rodrigo. The touchy-feely kind. 

His fingers trail down her arm when he walks past her. His lips are pressed to her cheek every chance he gets. His arm is around her shoulders when they watch a movie together. His tongue and mouth and hands map her body like nothing she's even experimented before. He leaves her breathless, both figuratively and literally sometimes. She doesn't know what to make of it. 

For a moment, Hailey thinks of not talking about it. Because they are so good at not talking about their feelings. 

But then one night, when he's in her bed half because he can't get enough of her and half because he has nowhere else to go, she does ask. The question pressed into the pillow as she hides her face against his bare shoulder. 

“What about the other girls?”

He sputters for a moment, a very Rodrigo thing to do. “Wha--who--what other girls?”

“You know,” she starts, even if she doesn't know herself, “La Fiamma and… other girls.”

He's moving immediately, above her with his hands on each side of her head before she even has time to react. In the dark, his eyes are the deep green of the forest and his frown makes his look even more adorable. “No. No, no, no, Hai-Lai, no. There is no--girls. Women. People.” And the he seems to deflect a little, only a little, before he adds, “There is only you. Come on, Hai-Lai.”

Yes, come on, Hailey. Isn't that obvious?

And she wants to roll her eyes so much, because it is obvious in that fucked-up, brilliant mind of his, and he looks so very offended that she would think otherwise, and it is the closest he's ever been to actually confessing his feelings to her. Perhaps this is what dating Rodrigo De Souza is like -- a mess of things left untold and obvious unsaid, reading between the lines and filling the blanks for him. So getting used to is in order, but she knows how his mind works (kinda). She can deal with it. Or at least she can try. 

So she grabs his neck and pulls him down to her, giggling when the kiss gets messy from the way he grins at her, smiles against her mouth. 

“¿Y tú? Any other man?”

She shakes her head, wraps her arms around his neck. “It was always you.”

 

…

 

Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night to her phone blinking like crazy, and fifteen messages waiting for her. 

It goes a little like, “Hailey Hailey Hailey have I told you about Pluto it's not even a planet anymore it's so sad Hailey do you realise how sad it is?”

She turns off her phone and goes back to sleep, an amused smile on her lips. 

 

…

 

She thinks about the cup of tea more often that she'd like. When her rehearsal finishes early and she comes to see him at work, only to find him surrounded by kids who look at him like he hangs the moon, stars, and galaxies. Sometimes he will keep one behind to give free, private lessons. Those are dubbed the Chosen Ones, Rodrigo’s little protégés who have so much potential already. This one plays with the blood, Hailey. That one made me cry with a piece of Bach. 

She thinks he would make a good father.

She thinks they are nowhere ready enough for this when she can't even keep a cactus alive for more that a few months, when half her stuff is still at Lizzie’s and all his stuff can be put in a backpack. 

Still, she thinks about the tea cup, and Rodrigo’s grandmother, and the music school that should belong to him by now. In another life, perhaps, one where her fingers aren't coated with sweat and blood and his mind can focus on something that isn't the kids or the orchestra or her. 

 

…

 

He never misses a single one of her shows. 

Hailey has no idea how he does it, because he's still as disorganised as ever and doesn't own any kind of agenda, and probably doesn't know his phone has a calendar option. (More often than not, his phone is long forgotten in corner of her room.)

Still, he is here every night, by the bar with only a glass of water, since he doesn't drink alcohol and Lizzie refused to buy his “weird, expensive tea nobody else is going to drink anyway”. He's here, watching her and building a solid reputation to the place, come and see the Rodrigo De Souza in his natural habitat. Perhaps he'll even brag about his girlfriend if you come close enough. 

He has a non-compete agreement with the orchestra, so he never plays, but he still brings enough of a crowd for Lizzie not to worry about business. 

And he never misses a show. 

It's all that matters. 

 

…

 

Hailey used to think there was something broken about her.

Dating Alex was a case study in how to avoid your boyfriend and run away from the inevitable as long as possible, and her other relationships (if you can even call them that) weren’t any better. Part of her teenage years went out the window because of the oboe, and rehearsals, and music as a whole, and things got even worse when she moved in with Lizzie. The orgasms weren’t worth the headache of dealing with men, and she would rather focus on the music than the dramatic mess of her personal life.

And it was fine -- not everyone is made for love.

But now Rodrigo drags her along to those obscure shows one or twice a week, and kisses her under the moonlight until she’s breathless with laughter and him. He agrees to watch trashy reality tv with Lizzie and Shawn, even if he looks down at the pop-corn. He buys her flowers, sometimes, and plays the violin for her, often. He will call her in the middle of the night, wandering god knows where, just to say goodnight and because he misses her voice. He will let her steal his cardigans, the big, warm ones she likes to snuggle on cold December nights, and will steal her shampoo since it smells so much nicer than anything he would ever buy for himself.

And when he finally whispers the small “Te amo” against her skin, in the middle of the night when her body is still buzzing with want and pleasure, it doesn’t sound earned or deserved or anything. It just sounds like perhaps actions were not enough for him anymore, and words were needed to convey his thoughts properly. It sounds like truth, like the kind of finality that should scare her, but only makes her smile.

“Te amo too,” she replies, trying not to laugh, giddy with love and happiness.

“También,” he corrects her.

But there is a smile in his voice, a laugh he can barely contain, and he pulls her closer to him until she’s in his arms again, until she kisses his nose and he grins at her.

“Te amo también,” she tries again.

It sounds like finality too.

But she already knew that.


End file.
